Middlebury register. (Middlebury, Vt.) 1886-1937, 1887-02-25
A SERVANT LASSIE.


poor were never despised by Him when
He was on earth.
Heigho! Ihavena written half dozen
lines o my story yet, and I'm sadly con-
scious that I've made blunders already.
mean to write it a in English, and if
bit Scotch wordie does tumble in moo
and again I'm sure you'll forgie me.
When | warm TO my work I'll get better
on. This is the way wi a Scotch folk;
when no excited it's their own broad
Doric they speak, but my conscience, if
you once put up their birse it's as fine
sounding English they'll speak as any
southener that ever stepped in shoe
leather
My name is Jeannic, Jcannic Mclean.
that's it a thegither or complete as l
ought to say. From far, far north the
Tweed | como, av, and north the Dee as
well. AS far west as the train can pcne-
trate among the Donside hills, on bon
ME braehead, among bonnie green knobs,
among woods o dark waving fir and
spruce, lighted up here and there wi the
tender green Of the feathery larch, and
begirt wi bands o yellow broom and
gowden furze, there stood my fathers
humble cot. And every night Of my
happy young life l used to be luled to
sleep by sound like waves breaking on
shingly beach; for, if it wasn't the
wind whispering and meaning through
the trees, it was The incessant hurtle o.
the Don rushing on over the pebbles and
powders. SO near We're we to the river
that dear Johnnie could throw a stone
right over it, A strong. strong arm had
Johnnie. Johnnie was my only brother,
and l never had Il sister.
Ny mother died when Johnnie and l
were SO young that neither of us could
remember her, and Grannie kept my
fathers house. Dear aud Grannie, with
her clear caller, canty face, and her busy,
happy ways, it is years ago since she has
gone to her long hame in the auld kirk
yard. She aye had a pleasant smile for
Johnnie and me, and used to tell us old
world stories in the long forenights o
winter.
Imagine us, if you can, gathered round
that Scottish country tiresidc, great fire
of peats and wood is blazing and cracking
on the hearth-there is no other light
AT one corner sits my father in an easy
chair, his days toll is past and his pipe
is alight; at the other is auld Grannie,
and click, click, click, click, go her knit
ting wires as she tells her tale, Johnnie
and 1 complete the circle; our eyes are
riveted on Grannies face. The smoke
goes curling up the wide chimney, the
blaze sometimes following yards high,
the wind without is roaring and whist
ling round the house, shaking doors and
dindling windows; but it makes us feel
al the snugger within. l Just creep
closer to Johnnie, lean my head OH his
shoulder, and listen.
BY and by Grannie stops speaking, and
for while the wind has it all its own
way; then my father rises solemnly and
puts his pipe away in the wa hole.
BARNS, let us worship God," he
says.
Grannie lights the black oil lamp, with
its dried rush wicks, and father takes the
Book. He reads a chapter, then, to the
half mournful notes of some such tune
as Martyrdom, we sing, perhaps, 1.-The
Lords My Shepherd"
There was always plenty to do, and
Johnnie and l were never sorry when
Sabbath came. Sabbath and long
walk to the wee bit kirk on the hill head,
where in earnest and impressive voice our
good minister would point the way to
happier spheres; he never failed to breathe
words of comfort for the weary, consola-
ton for the bereaved, and hopes of future
joy for all.
Never Sunday passed that Johnnie
and l did not linger behind, till all the
other kirk folk had passed away out and
homewards, then we would go quietly
round and visit mothers grave. This
was not all sentiment both of us loved
mother, though we hardly remembered
seeing her. But her mortal remains were
there in that auld kirkyard, and they
would rise again, such was our simple
faith; and we never looked upon mother
as dead, but as saint in heaven, She
could see us, we thought nay, might
even be permitted to watch over us, and
lovingly guard and befriend us in trial
and in danger. She saw us each Sab
bath, then, as we bent low and touched
the grassy knoll and laid thereon our Of
ferings of flowers. Humble enough
these might be, but in spring there We're
the sweet scented yellow primrose and
sprigs o crimson may, in summer there
were always rich buttercups and rich OK
eyed daisies, and hundred wild flowers
from hedgerow and copse; even winter
brought its garlands of red rowans and
its evergreens, SO all the year round
mothers grave never wanted beauty.
That old churchyard and the wee bit
kirk. l have but to shut my eyes and
they rise up before me. What though
the kirk itself was steepleless, the bell
devoid of music, the grass long and
green on the graves, and after rain look
ing as though it had been combed down;
what though the tombstones were gray
and lichen clad, and leant in everydirec-
ton except the right one-mother' grave
was there!
You English maids may laugh at me,
but ah! you little ken how dearly we
Scotch mountaineers love our wild
homes; besides, you knOw-I'm only q
simple servant lassie.
Our Johnnie could play the fiddle SC
sweetly. 1t was the merry airs auld
Grannie liked the best, but there was ono
thing that Johnnie used to play and sing